Sloom
by Anonymonimus
Summary: During his time away from 221b after faking his death, a fear begins to grow within Sherlock. A fear with a base that he cannot disprove completely or ignore that bites at him every waking moment. Will what he fears most ever become reality? For challenge 6 of letswritesherlock


**Entry for LetswriteSherlock challenge 6 :D**

**I went with a mindfuck horror (at least, I hope that's what I did in the end) xP**

**But yea, so here are some warnings: CHARACTER DEATH, SUICIDE, AND EERINESS**

**Now enjoy and tell me how I did :DD**

* * *

Sherlock refused to sleep since that day in the grave yard. Watching John beg him to come back, to stop being dead, with such grief and angst present in his voice; it awoke a fear in him. It was rather idiotic, he knew, John was not weak, he would be fine and he would eventually heal or survive until his return, but, John was also a soldier who had gone through hell and back. Like every soldier, John bore the subtle signs of a strong man traumatized by the sounds of bullets, explosions and of dying men, women and children - his hand twitch was the proof of that. And though Sherlock knew John was strong, that he had stared in the face of Death and survived, he couldn't help but to think: what if...

But no.

He refused to elaborate on the thought any more. He had done it once before, rationalizing why it was an outrageous thought and out ruling the little spark of doubt within him. And though he had proved it unlikely, the spark remained because unlikely didn't mean impossible, and Sherlock was reminded of that every time he fell asleep and dreamed.

And so, he did his best not to sleep. He confused excessive amounts of caffeine and even went to the length of injecting himself with adrenaline when his will was insufficient. But every man has his limits and, eventually, Sherlock couldn't battle the desperate urge his body had to rest. His eyes fluttered closed against his will and his mind began to blank as he faded away into the depths of his mind and saw what he hopelessly attempted to ignore.

* * *

_Thump. Thump._

_A dark cloud loomed above 221b which stood alone in a desolating plane. The apartment complex was ruined, the windows were barred with rotting planks and the used bricks seemed to be a gust of wind away from fading to dust. Though it had only been three years in Sherlock's mind, it had seemed as though 221b had traveled a millennium._

_Thump. Thump._

_Sherlock walked up the front steps, towards the door, hanging loosely from the hinges, on which the address numbers had been burned in place by time though the painted metal had long since fallen or been stolen. His fingers gently grazed the handle but settled next to it for the door was already partially open. With the bare minimum of strength required, Sherlock pushed the door but rather than open, it fell from the frame and into the entryway with a bang and a cloud of dust. It had only been three years...hadn't it?_

_Thump. Thump._

_It was a short moment before the dust cleared and the wrecked inside of 221b was revealed. The ceiling next to the staircase had caved, and the wall paper was pealing from where it once hung, revealing rotting plants and nests of grotesque vermin. Though he did worry about Miss Hudson, Sherlock's mind was drawn to what awaited from him at the top of the stairs._

_Thump. Thump._

_The wood creaked and cracked beneath his feet and threatened to break but never did. He managed to climb them and reach the final door that separated him from his most primal fear. A fear he had not known he felt until he considered its potential reality._

_Thump. Thump._

_His heart smashed horribly hard against his chest, and his throat tightened considerably, nearly choking him. His hand trembled as it neared the rusted knob. He didn't want to open the door anymore, he didn't want to see, but it wasn't his choice. His actions were beyond his control._

_Thump. Thump._

_With a dry movement, the door creaked open and displayed the ruins of what Sherlock's flat had become. Just like he saw from the outside, the windows in his home were also barred with deteriorating wood but the glass was also broken. The furniture and any other important items had disappeared, most likely stolen, except for the table and the couch but both were in poor condition and tipped over. The kitchen was no better, a pile of debris and moss laid beneath the faucet, the cabinet doors were either absent or open, and there was a large gaping hole where the dinner table once stood. It had only been three years... hadn't it?_

_Thump. Thump._

_His home was ruined, rotten, and destroyed and to add to the disaster, there was the annoying thumping. He turned away from the kitchen and followed the sound, initially stomping to the other side of the flat in anger and irritation but then, slowing as fear crept within his mind again. He didn't know what he was expecting, what was thumping against a wall, and, again, he didn't want to know._

_Thump. Thump._

_He found himself in front of John's bedroom door. It was closed, as always, but what was particular about it was that, unlike the rest of 221b, it was in perfect condition. In fact, it was as though it was brand new and freshly painted. Sherlock reached out to push it open, but before he could, the door simply swung open silently._

_Thump._

_Sherlock fell to his knees. His heart stopping as he saw John. His eyes were blank, staring at the floor, his face was purple, suffocated by the tight rope around his neck keeping him inches from the ground and swinging him inconsistently against the wall to his right. Clutched tightly in his hand was Sherlock's scarf and bellow his hanging form was a note addressed to Miss Hudson:_

_"I'm sorry for leaving you like this, but I can't live without him anymore. I miss him too much to go on. - John W."_

_Suddenly, the room disappeared beneath him and Sherlock found himself kneeling in darkness with John still hanging lifelessly before him. And then he felt familiar and cold hands burn through his coat and slowly dig into his shoulders._

_"You did this to him." Moriarty whispered with a giggle. "You thought if you played my game, you could save him, but it wasn't that simple. I owe you, Sherlock. And now we're even."_

_Angrily, Sherlock swung his fist blindly at Moriarty who stood behind him but the latter vanished before any contact could be made. It was then that Sherlock noticed the tears streaming down his face and the grief, regret and sickness he felt in the pit of his stomach._

_"John..." he moaned pathetically through his tears, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."_

_Thump. Thump._

* * *

Sherlock gasped awake, jumping immediately into a sitting position and breathing heavily. The sun was shining through the window and he could hear the birds chirping from the other side. It was beautiful outside but Sherlock felt as horrible as he did every time he woke up from that nightmare. He was drenched in sweat and, as always, his body trembled uncontrollably as flashes of what he had dreamed about played through his mind.

"It was just a dream."He repeated to himself aloud, "An irrational dream. John is strong, he is capable, and he will not kill himself over so little..."

And so, Sherlock continued with how he normally went about his days until the time would come to return to 221b. When that day came, Sherlock stood a long moment outside the apartment and listened attentively until...

Thump. Thump.


End file.
